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Morbidity and Mortality, or M & M’s, is a practice where doctors discuss the events surrounding the death of a patient and how they may either prevent futures deaths of that nature or how to perform a better job in general when faced with such events. It sounds sick and twisted, but I get how it can be a useful practice. If we did a post-mortem on all our mistakes in life, we’d be the better for it.
So I’m managing a contract on behalf the school. Lot’s of undergrads, young students, kids really, some of them girls. Thankfully, I have a pretty even-keeled bunch. My cohorts, however, have a much different group of students. And that is where the problem lies. I’m 36, I have years of experience managing companies and people, my fellow managers are 23 without such experience.
There is a young girl, recently turned 21, who is on another team and is going through some “stuff”. My fellow managers have not yet noticed only to say that she is behind on work and may need replacing. They don’t know what to say, what to do, and they are going to turn it over to school faculty to deal with. Clearly, this is something I don’t need to be involving myself with. I am busy with school, busy with life, and no time to be dealing with the turmoils of a 21 year old girl.
But said 21 year old girl is in a class with me and when she got out of her seat the other day, we happened to lock eyes and then I saw it: she’s ready to break. And by break, I mean, utterly ready to lose her shit…mind…shit, whatever…
So I invited her out for a drink, forced her really. I heard her story: break up with her first serious boyfriend, ending an unhealthy friendship, moving out on her own, a sick parent…basically everything that throws you into a tail-spin. She tried to justify it by saying she was just stressed. I told her it was deeper than that and that she was a mess. She admitted she was and began to cry.
I don’t have time for crying. I don’t have time for this girl’s problems. I’m so swamped with school and life at any given time that I can barely keep my head above water. I don’t have time for this girl and her tears.
But she got to me.
She did, she got to me. I know what it’s like to have your world fall down around your ears while trying to deny to yourself that your world isn’t falling down around your ears. I know what it’s like to be cut-off, to not have anyone to talk to. I know what it’s like to be so overwhelmed by the coming weeks that you can’t see your way through the next 24 hours. She got to me.
Mostly though, I know what it is like to be surrounded by women, older women, women with experience, who have been there…and frankly, these women, they could give a damn that you’re there now, in the trenches. They make you dig your own trench, even if that trench is being dug in the wrong direction. Because they are busy with their own lives, or they feel there is something to be learned by digging a trench alone, which truth be told, teaches you nothing. Digging a trench may make you stronger, endure more, but it doesn’t make you smarter, doesn’t prevent you from making the same mistakes that required the trench digging in the first place.
And while I hate those women, I also want to be them. I don’t have time for this. This 21 year old girl and her problems. My own problems are much bigger. But she got to me.
So I heard her out, she received a talking to, and then we made a plan. We planned how she was going to get through the next 24 hours. Then the next 48. Then the weekend. Come Sunday night, the planning starts anew.
She has my number with strict instructions to call if she needs to melt down. Another thing I don’t have time for and I fervently hope she keeps it together and doesn’t call. But if she does calls, I know I’m sucker enough to answer.
We’ll be meeting for coffee once a week until the end of term. Even if she thinks she’s better, I’ll be the judge and the meetings will stop when I say they stop. Another damn thing I don’t have time for.
By nature, I’m not a particularly good or even nice person. I try, but I usually fail. But Sailor is a nice person, the nicest I know, and I am surrounded by so many nice and good people I wonder why I can’t be the same. My instinct is to take care of myself, my needs, and be selfish with my time. Sure, the girl got to me, but the instinct to pull away remains the same. To not be a nice person. I’m willing to admit that this now, what I’m doing with this girl, is abnormal behavior.
But I’m in it now. I’m hoping for the best. I hope she can pull it around. I know she will because I will make her. I’ve gone out on a limb, now I expect acorns. I’m hoping my involvement remains minimal. I’m hoping this won’t be a massive time suck. I’m hoping there are no more tears.
Because while I want to be a better person, I don’t have the time for it.
A mere 40 arbitrary days after smearing oneself with burnt whatever and you get to celebrate the encore performance of a dead Nazarene on stick with pagan bunnies and psychedelic eggs whilst eating cocoa bean by-products from Central America! Top it off with multiple airings of the “Sound of Music” and you, my friend, have the fixins’ for a perfect weekend.
Dammit, I love Easter!!
I don’t know what it is about this holiday that makes me all crazy nut-so insane, but it does. And alas, Sailor Man is off to sea at present so I am wholly unable of yelling him to put some clothes on when he’s talking on the phone to my mother. Not that he walks around naked. And he certainly would never actually talk to my mother on the phone (best not to engage mom in that fashion…at all..took him years, years I tell you, to learn that lesson).
So I am denied my fun.
Seriously, I have got the trouble bug something fierce and that itch needs to be scratched, I tell you. It’s been many, many moons since I’ve gone out to a bar pretending to be a dyslexic stripper from Arkansas with a backwards tattoo on my ass….and I’m surrounded my college kids all day who truly do not know how to go out and create mischief.
Sigh…I really need to get out…something about this time of year makes me wanna howl at the moon…
Believe it or not, I learned this poem sophomore year of Catholic high school. To date, this remains one my favorite naughty poems. Do keep in mind this is posted by woman whose husband is away at sea…
(ponder,darling,these busted statues
of yon motheaten forum be aware
notice what hath remained
–the stone cringes
clinging to the stone,how obsoletelips utter their extant smile . . . .
remarka few deleted of texture
or meaning monuments and dollsresist Them Greediest Paws of careful
time all of which is extremely
unimportant)whereas Lifematters if or
when the your-and my-
idle vertical worthless
self unite in a peculiarly
momentarypartnership(to instigate
constructive
Horizontal
business . . . . even so,let us make haste
–consider well this ruined aqueductlady,
which used to lead something into somewhere)ee cummings
Naughty Haiku For Sailor
Hey, there Sailor Man
When you’re done there at the helm
Come home and take mine
The pooch shot out the front door last night, when I forgot to close it fully, and promptly darted across the street to see if the young rapscallion pup was out to play.
I tiptoed into The Neighbors’ backyard to retrieve said pooch when I heard music. Poking my head up enough to peer into the window, I saw it.
My alien neighbor family was singing and laughing around the piano. Executive Polo was leading the singing with what looked like a damn smart cocktail in hand. Skort Mama was knitting-yes knitting- while listening to young Sally and Bobby play a duet while harmonizing with dear old dad.
I never would have believed it had not my other neighbor caught me sneaking out of their yard. I had barely begun trying to explain my voyuerism when she pointed to their window: “Yeah, strange, isn’t it?”
Sister, no truer words have been spoken…
I bit the bullet and went to see the Doc this week. The tops of my feet have sun poisoning from sailing, I’ve got a nagging splinter in my right heel from a drunken game of kickball played after a funeral, my left elbow is all weird after some guerilla-style soccer with the neighbor kids, the right side of my neck developed a twitch after a pick-up game of volleyball a few days ago, and I pulled a muscle in my back again after lifting.
The Doc clucks at me with his thick brogue while he manages to excavate the elusive splinter from my foot:
“What the hell are you doing to yourself?”
“I play hard.”
“You’re falling apart!”
“Because I play harder than most.”
“I’m going to prescribe you some X, Y, and Z.”
“But I don’t want X, Y, or Z, they make me feel more stupid than normal.”
“You like being in pain?”
“No.”
“Are you willing to go back to PT?”
“It only ever makes me feel worse.”
“Well, if you’re not going to take pain medication or do the physical therapy, then why don’t you stop all these shenanigans that put you in this state?”
“Well, what fun would that be?”
As a 35 year old women surrounded by 20-something college kids everyday, I will admit that from time to time, I find said kids a bit trying. However, truth be told, I am often more comfortable around this age set because every 35 year old woman I know is drowning in children, play dates, soccer practice, ballet, and Hannah Montana-whathaveyou which makes them completely incapable of discussing other things like the Israeli-Syrian peace talks and the last episode of South Park.
That is not to say that I am fully up front with my classmates about my age either. While I come across as a slightly elder, learn-ed statesman, it is often assumed that I am in my late 20’s, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told, and I’m sticking to that-I might even cling, just a bit.
Which is why I now tell everyone I am 42.
I know, it seems slightly, okay, terrifically crack-pot, but you have to hear me out on this one:
It all started with “Lisa”. Lisa and I met one day in the student coffee shop and started kvetching about the college kiddies. Since we’re the same age, the morning coffee run became a bit of a therapy session as we both bitched about how hard it could be being students around other students of a different generation. Lisa and I ended up in a same class together where I then learned that Lisa was lying about her age. To our classmates, Lisa was not 35, but 26. Solidarity, sisterhood and all things being equal, I did not reveal Lisa’s secret. However, in a group discussion with classmates, someone said something to the effect that of course Lisa and I held the same opinion because we were “obviously the same age”, and I was so pissed at Lisa for lying about “our age” that before I could think about it, I found myself going in the opposite direction.
And Bang! Zow! You should see the reaction this gets! See, while Lisa can pass for 26, it’s a tough 26. Put Lisa next to an actual 26 year old and there’s some noticeable differences. Me, however, I don’t pass for 42, and no one believes that I am, nor should they, but that’s not the point. The point is, at 35, I look good, at 42, however, I look phenomenal. The “No way! You’re not that old!” comments fly, but I just respond with a “Who lies about that sort of thing?” (me, apparently) and that ends the discussion.
This then leads to the inevitable: what’s your secret? questions to which I reply: don’t smoke, workout, sleep, and stay out of the sun. All of which I actually do, so let’s hope the results hold.
(This also gets the young college boys thinking they might want some advanced-age lovin’ and, dudes, what’s up with that? Why am I untouchable at 35 but “hot” at 42? Forbidden fruit? I’m sorry, Sailor Man aside, that mere thought of being called a “cougar” is just something I can’t even deal with in this lifetime.)
So why do any of this? Mostly because my real age is no one’s damn business. So what does lying about being older prove? It proves nothing. But I think it does accomplish something and that is this: getting people to re-think women in their 40’s. As a woman looking down the barrel of the big 4-0, this is something I am sensitive to. So maybe this is my way of practicing for the real thing. Men hit 40 and it’s like nothing happens. Women hit 40 and it’s all menopause-wrinkles-sagging-skin-decline-to-cronedom.
So, harmless white lie? I wonder. I admit, I probably haven’t thought this all the way through. In the meantime, I am enjoying the benefits of being an older women. It’s liberating really. General public expectations for advancing age are so shamefully low, that really, anything I do around campus garners raves. If you don’t believe me, you should see the guys in the weight room at school when I put up 200 on my bench. I know, I know, it’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s preposterous. Don’t think the irony is lost on me.
But for now, I’m a fabulous 42. Of course, pretty soon, I’ll be 43 (start of a new school term). So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Suddenly, turning 40 isn’t looking so bad, now that I’m getting the hang of it.
My friend “L” is in town this weekend. And while we haven’t seen each other in 4 years, we can both easily agree this is probably a good thing. See, whenever hanging with L, I have to be very careful with what I say because whenever I utter something remotely predictive around L, it tends to come true.
People’s Exhibit #1:
Me: Hey, what do you want to bet the guy with least amount teeth in this bar tries to by us a shot?
People’s Exhibit #2:
Me: Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if a cop pulled us over while we have the blow-up doll in the car?
People Exhibit #2b (5 minutes later):
Me. Don’t worry, no cop is gonna give you a ticket when you have a blow-up doll in the car.
People’s Exhibit #3:
Me: Hey, what a beautiful day! All we need is for me to get stung by a bee so I can miss it by spending the day in the emergency room.
You get the picture…
So, L is visiting and the magic seems to be off. And I’m not sure what has happened. Of course it’s easy to predict that a bad band will play Rum Runners and that the ear piercing decibels of sound at Molly Brannigans will drive you from the bar, because these things always happened. And betting that 4 Key Lime Martini’s at Scotty’s will be the near death of you is pretty much a no-brainer. Estimative words of probability need not apply.
So what has happened? Where the spontaneity? Where’s the mystery? Is Erie just that predictable? Or have my nights out become predictable?
See, L used to be my wing-man back living on the Eastern Shore of Maryland when while drinking at bars, I would break out an Arkansas accent and become “Candy: The Stripper Who Couldn’t Dance”. She never questioned me, she just went with it and would become “Addfwyn: The Overly Talkative Welsh Woman No One Could Understand Except Her Friend Candy”.
Nights like those tend to lead to a certain amount of unpredictability which made my proclamations all that more remarkable. This weekend, however, not a one. My tuning must be off.
But I have one day. Maybe I can pull a rabbit out of my hat. I hope so. I need an adventure.
Sailor Man often complains that I want it both ways. He complains to me that I can’t have it both ways.
Given the existence of particle wave duality, I argue, yes, I can. Light is a tricky beast. Allows you to see everything yet will blind you at the same time. Sometimes acts like a particle. Other times acts like a wave. Is it a wave with particle properties? Or is it a particle with properties of waves?
Bohrs, Einstein, Newton, Young, and a host of great minds have tried to tackle this problem and we still have no satisfactory answers.
So, yes, I can be mad as hell at you and love you ferociously at the same time.
So, yes, I will spend an hour giving myself the perfect pedicure and then throw on a pair of socks and shoes.
So, yes, I can insist you not leave your dirty clothes on the floor and simultaneously demand that you not stop to fold your pants if I’m trying to get it on with you.
Bohrs, Einsten, Newton, Young….even they couldn’t entirely figure it out. But then, sorry, I forgot, they were only men.
